It’s May 5th.
I am sitting on my couch. There is a sleepy cat in my lap, and an even sleepier husband dozing in the sunroom just behind me.
My butt is sore from all of the jump squats I completed yesterday.
Strangely enough, I feel no side-effects from the seventy-fish push-ups.
This must mean I am getting stronger.
(At least arm-wise; not ass-wise.)
In the past two months these things have happened:
Marc and I sold our townhome and bought and moved into a new house. We have a beautiful garden and grassy yard, with a large patio and gas bbq. On days when the weather cooperates, we like to sit under the sun’s strong rays and wax poetic about our little piece of heaven.
Our home was built in 1907.
If there are ghosts, they are friendly.
On April 6 I ran a personal best in the Sunshine Coast half-marathon. Completing the course in 1:31:13, I came 11th overall for all of the ladies, and 7th in my age group.
It ended up being a very warm day to run 21.1km. Regret, they name is an Under Armour long-sleeve shirt.
(I need to really remember that start-line gooseflesh is fleeting.)
I’ve been re-reading quite a bit of Robertson Davies. Six months ago it was the Salterton Trilogy, and now I’m halfway through The Depford Trilogy.
Oh! For that man’s way with words.
Marc and I have also made a budget.
Things be serious, folks.
In June I am visiting Chicago for four days. In August, Hawaii for nine.
Tough Mudder is June 21.
I will be the strongest.
(Seriously, I am Linda Hamiltoning this race like a bamf).
The one true fly in the ointment is that I haven’t been sleeping very well for the past month. In fact, there are only two days since perhaps the birth of the New Year that I can remember sleeping soundly through the night.
Sometimes I believe it might never happen again.
Sometimes I get so overwhelmed with work, and life, and thoughts, and fears, and loves, that there is no room left over to live (let alone sleep).
What I want is to live purely and plainly, without early-morning heartaches, without bed sheets soaked through from my rising panic and clammy sweat, without the sensation of a lead weight pressing down on my chest, through my chest, into my heart, through my heart.
Only I’m not sure how.
Today is June 16th.
I recently returned from a five day trip to the land of deep dish, skyscrapers, and wind.
Seriously, Chicago is the best.
(The only thing that isn’t the best is Chicago baseball. But take my word for it when I say that this opinion isn’t a knock on the White Sox themselves per se, but more so on the sport in general. Because good grief is that crap ever boring.)
SORRY NOT SORRY.
I’ve been sleeping much better of late – trying as I might to get my anxiety in check and buckle down on long-term, effective coping mechanisms that will quiet and quell the run-run-running of words throughout my head on a second to second basis.
It’s a work in progress, but my nose is grinding away on that stone like a grinding thing.
Of late I feel like I could run forever.
Of late I like to imagine myself as swift-footed Atalanta, charging past her would-be suitors (and in the act, signing their death warrants), racing free from all worldly constraints. The only difference of course being my penchant from outlet mall spandex and race t-shirts.
One day I will spend a whack load of cash dollars on expensive beautiful running gear.
But until that day, I’m going to keep on keeping on looking like I belong on the cover of a 1979 copy of Runner’s World.
And that’s hot stuff.
I’ve never once stopped thinking about all of y’alls.
Thank you for your comments, emails, and words of concern and encouragement.
Tune in next time – same bat time, same bat channel.
(Same batty writer.)
I’m climbing up that spout.